


Fracture

by Almadynis



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mental Torture, Mystery, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Season 3, Season 3 Doctor Who, Self-Insert, Suspense, Torture, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almadynis/pseuds/Almadynis
Summary: Three women remember Doctor Who, a television show that seems to have suddenly disappeared from reality as if it had never been. When one of them is kidnapped, the other two must race against Time and Time Lords before it's too late... The world itself hangs in the balance. (season 3; rated M to be safe)





	1. Chapter 1

**The Mandela Effect is a real theory.**

 

“Where is my TARDIS?” Rebekah Grey demanded. She bit the inside of her cheek in exasperation, gazing at the spot where once it stood. 

 

 _Thieves!_ The angry thought rattled in her mind. First it had been her favorite tea tin. The one her father gave to her for Christmas no less. For their last Christmas to be certain.

 

Now this. Was nothing sacred anymore? The thought completely unnerved her especially so given the times they were living in.  She clenched her jaw briefly, taking a deep breath. _Had it simply been moved?_

 

“TARDIS?” Staci Newberry was passing by Rebekah’s cubicle to address their manager, Tim Martin about her New York property. They both worked in risk analysis for Baypoint Financial, a subsidiary of JP Morgan Bank. 

 

The brunette grimaced at her, wondering if she would understand the reference. Likely not. Staci was in particular more of a Marvel, Star Wars and Sherlock Holmes fan. And although the selfsame writer, Steven Moffat, collaborated on both Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes did not equate to a parallel fan base. 

 

But still, Staci might remember the object Rebekah was referring to.

 

“My….um, TARDIS.” She started. “Well, a pewter replica of it.” She pointed to the top of her filing cabinet where Rebekah’s décor was on pivotal display. “It was sitting right next to the pewter flask and the tea Teresa gave me for my birthday last year.” 

 

Staci stepped up, flicking a strand of ebony, dark hair away from her eyes while managing to rub them at the same time. She had just returned from being laid up for two days with a migraine and appeared not fully recovered. “What’s a TARDIS?” She asked.

 

“Sorry, British telephone box replica. It would look sort of like that.” It was a fairly accurate description. Given the pewter design and workmanship, it would be difficult to distinguish much of a difference to the untrained eye. 

 

Or to those who didn’t know the show.

 

“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t remember you having it.” Staci’s term of endearment was common. She referred to many of her female coworkers in this regard in that comradely tone of workplace affection. It reminded Rebekah a bit of River Song and….

 

 _No._ She told herself. Difficult though it was to lose a friend, the experience taught her a valuable lesson. She remembered a childhood tale called ‘The Giving Tree’. A story about a sentient tree that formed an endearing friendship with a boy, who provided for the child through his entire life in terms of food, shelter and rest.  

 

Rebekah had forgotten the lesson of the tale that one should endeavor to act like the Giving Tree and the consequences had been meted out. She swallowed with difficulty as she returned her attention to Staci.

 

“But I know you asked about it once or twice. I kept my pens in it because the little top came off and….” She saw Staci’s blank expression. “You don’t remember?”

 

“Could maintenance have taken it by mistake?”

 

“Why would they?” She was askance, looking on the floor, even crawling on her hands and knees to peer under her desk. The smell of copper wiring filled her nostrils, yet she saw no pewter object. But how could that be?

 

She wouldn’t have moved it and the pewter TARDIS was scarcely more than an empty jewelry box. It was nothing to covet and not worth any sort of price to steal. Rebekah picked up her garbage bin and stared at it doubtfully. 

 

Empty. Of course it was empty.

 

“Forget something?” Tim Martin, her manager, was now talking. Generally an amiable man who could tell a joke in a deadpan manner that many questioned whether he was serious or not.  Often, Rebekah could be accused of naiveté that she took his words at face value.

 

Fifteen years ago, he moved to California for education and work but did not see a reason to move back home regardless of how much he missed his hometown of Comar in the Northwest region of France.

 

In exchange, he visited the country he loved so greatly twice a year. “Je ne sais pas.” She muttered the words, ‘I don’t know’, in French. Sometimes if the mood struck her she would practice the little French she remembered, given it was her dearest wish to acquire a second language skill.

 

“Her pewter TARDIS.” Staci shrugged her shoulders. “Did you make off with it, Tim?”

 

He smiled furtively. That smile they knew so well where she knew the next words he would contrive to say were simply ‘utter crap’. “Oh yes.” He jested in mock sincerity. “At night while you were gone and sent it back to France.” He sighed and held up his hands. “But then there is nothing for it. C’est la vie.”

 

Rebekah glanced at him and rolled her eyes to know she didn’t take his comments seriously.

 

“No. Really.” He wheedled. “I’ll find proof…or a picture.” He paused. “Yes, a picture of the item but I will expect a small ransom to have it returned safely.”

 

“Right.” The brunette agreed in equal sarcasm. “Why don’t I pay you that ransom with interest at 2.25%, fixed over thirty years.”

 

“Hmm.” Her manager pondered. “We could arrange that but then, I won’t be returning the item until the thirty years is complete.”

 

Pressing her lips together briefly, she flung her coat over her chair. “I doubt you’ll live that long to enjoy it.”

 

And yes, joking about his age was commonplace even though he appeared only ten years older than her. Perhaps young, middle age but could hardly be acquainted as old. 

 

“Ohhh.” Emma teased, who sat in the cubicle behind Rebekah’s. A rather constant flirt to any man who managed to make his way to her desk. Even married men weren’t off limits. “Calm down you two. Do I have to send you out to go and ‘break bread?”

 

Breaking bread was Tim’s philosophy. Rather than having people bicker, their manager would send them out to lunch and with any luck, overcome their personal difficulties. 

 

“If only I ever ate lunch.” Rebekah felt the last two years had drained the life out of her and with that, her appetite was not what it was. Sweets tasted abhorrent. 

 

Maybe because she enjoyed those traditions with her father. Pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Wine and soufflés at Christmas. 

 

But no, nothing tasted right. Only dry foods could she stomach, like deli sandwiches and smoked salmon. Something had happened. When her father had died, it took her lust for life with him to the grave.

 

 _No._ She corrected herself despite her clenched jaw. To the pine box used for his urn. She had moved back home, giving up her lease to help her dying father. She sacrificed everything.

 

She also managed, after spending weeks at a time, to secure a pension that now reverted to her mother since Rebekah was over the age of twenty-two. 

 

She supposed for some reason she thought her mother would use the windfall to bury her father as according to his wishes. But no. She didn’t even offer Rebekah a portion of the money to any degree to ensure her father’s wishes were carried out. Even 10% would have gone a long way but what did take place was that her mother took the windfall and then insisted that Rebekah pay a good amount of money for rent.

 

And it was taxing. She loved her mother but she knew that her parent was miserable. How could she have expected anything different?

 

“A bottle of wine?” Tim suggested but it was at that point that Rebekah had grown thoughtful. 

 

“Not on an empty stomach,” she said abstractly as she pulled open her small, blue binder to find the name of the tech support person who assisted her months ago. 

 

She didn’t need tech support but he had offered to buy the TARDIS from her. Perhaps, it was a trick. A joke he was playing on her. She didn’t think him capable of such immature pranks but then she only met him for him minutes.

 

“Greg.” She said after dialing his extension and hearing his muffled ‘hello’. “I’m glad I caught you but I’m missing something. My pewter TARDIS on the filing cabinet. Do you remember seeing it?” She knew for certain he was a fan of Doctor Who and recognized the pewter box right away as a TARDIS rather than the typical red, phone booths that peppered England.

 

“TARDIS?” He sounded positively blank. “What’s a TARDIS?” He asked.

 

“Greg, seriously. I’m not in the mood for jokes. You remember it. British telephone booth. You wanted to buy it off me.”

 

“I did?”

 

“Of course you did. My Pewter TARDIS.“ She felt exasperated, remembering having gone so far as to search for the art vendor online so as to find him a duplicate. But in vain. “From Doctor Who.” She prompted, closing her eyes. Her piece so far had appeared to be original.

 

 _Until it vanished._ She mused.

 

“Weird name for a show.” He seemed thoughtful. “And it involves phone booths?” A pause as he gave the idea some thought. “Let me guess, it’s about Russian government and their machinations.”

 

“Wait, what?” She asked. “Russia? Why would it be about Russia?” 

 

“Sounds familiar. Made in the 1960’s about Russia during World War-“

 

“No!” Realization struck her at the error that had been made. “That’s Doctor Zhivago. Doctor Who is about a time travel.” She bit the bottom of her lip. Was he having her on?

 

“And it has to do with phone booths. No Deloreans?”

 

“As in Back to the Future?” Rebekah rolled her eyes. “You’re playing with me. I know you are so out with it. Where did you put it?”

 

“I promise you I don’t have it,” said Greg. “I wouldn’t just swipe it off your desk and-“

 

“Hey, you two, thought you both should know,” Staci started, “Massive attack at a London hospital. Police think multiple causalities to be expected and probably related to terrorism.”

 

Rebekah felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. England had endured its fair share of terrorism with Manchester, London, the surrounding cities and that didn’t even count those using the Russian nerve agent. It made her sick to her stomach. She felt her mouth go dry. “How many do they think? Where?”

 

“Wellington Medical Center,” the blonde replied looking down at her phone perplexed. “And that’s the problem. They don’t expect any survivors.”

 

“It was that bad?” She was struck by the horror at such a calamitous event.

 

“It’s gone.” Staci explained as the other employees turned in shock at her statement. “The entire hospital is missing.”

 

Rebekah swallowed as a chill crawled down her spine raising gooseflesh. A hospital gone missing. Where did that sound familiar?

 

 _No._ She told herself, dictating to her mind that she needed to be logical. _There must be some other explanation. I know there is._

 

But much like her disappearing TARDIS, the vanishing hospital had presided over her workday with equal mystery, both of which she could not explain. 

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

The vanishing of the Wellington Medical Center was on the news that night but Rebekah wasn’t keen on watching the news. She remembered the Grenfell Tower, a location of low income dwellings that burned in London simply out of negligence since due to expired fire extinguishers, no sprinkler system nor a fire inflammable coating on the building exterior, which provided added outrage to the event.

 

 _Maybe it’s like that._ Horrendous the thought may be since seventy-two people died in that fire with some tenants jumping from the top floors of their windows to the unforgiving cement below to escape being burned alive.

 

Death by burning would be agonizing in contrast to the immediate mercy given with the death by a fall. But she remembered seeing those bodies fall to the ground, certain in their demise and was struck with memory of the tragedy of September 11th. On television, she recalled the people falling for precisely the same reason as the Grenfell Tower and the thud she heard echoed to her core making her positively ill.

 

Was Wellington Medical Center a tragedy but a fate compounded with more death than the grim crisis at Grenfell?

 

It wasn’t until the morning before she looked up the incident only to barely find a mention regarding the happenstance. _Why?_ She thought to herself.

 

She was near to giving up when she spotted an article in the The Sun. A magazine known as a tabloid given to sensationalist news with often little bearing on fact. She dismissed such news as not being credible. _Rag magazines._ She thought. _I might as well read the National Enquirer._

 

Yet still, The Sun insisted the hospital disappeared and within a day it was returned with a little worse to wear. The headline featured in bold.

 

 ** _Are there Aliens Living Among Us?_**  

 

_Read page four to find the whole story of the hospital, which disappeared only to be returned. Only we know the truth._

 

Rebekah rubbed her eyes, feeling mystified. What became of the story so loudly proclaimed on the news? She pressed her lips together, looking at her Apple Watch. Now she was running late for work. Mystery or otherwise, the matter would have to wait but as she stepped into the midsummer heat of the early morning, she felt distinctly uneasy. It was a calamity just yesterday. Would those in the U.K. simply accept this muted response by the media only to simply find out that the ‘terrorist attack’ so soon after Manchester was considered nothing more than a political or media stunt?

 

 _Or prank._ She thought. _Who will take the credit? Darren Brown or David Copperfield?_ She considered. After all, both might be able to pull off some similar stunt for entertainment.

_But this wasn’t entertainment to those that lived there._ She acknowledged to herself.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

The disappearance of Wellington Medical Center as people were want to call it was credited as a combined effort of a political and media stunt. The Daily Mail and the National Enquirer insisted on the narrative of an alien invasion although those sources were considered less than credible. The Prime Minister, Theresa May, berated the paparazzi for the spectacle and leaks for which she called ‘baseless’ for which the intent was to cause panic in London.

 

Indeed, it did. Much like the urban legend of the ‘War of the Worlds’, where it was thought that people took fright when aliens were attacking the earth on a mass scale, the same comparison was made with London. Businesses shut down and people scurried home. Some fled the City fearing another disappearance. 

 

Certain religious groups thought it might have been the very first stage of the Rapture and sought the sanctity of churches. 

 

But following the event, Londoners despised being made to appear like fools.

 

Rebekah could only stare at the news streaming through her BBC app on her iPhone, clenching her teeth as President Trump called the media upfront ‘fake news’ and turned his attention to other matters on Twitter. Those in the UK were not so swayed. Theresa May was eager for the publicity when the drama unfolded during the disappearance but then teetered the other direction, content to unburden herself of the blame to the press. 

 

She found herself called on the carpet by the other members of parliament as people took to protest in anger on the streets. She had lost Member of Parliament seats in the last SNAP election. Her prospects looked far grimmer now given the debacle.

 

The brunette licked her lips feeling partially aghast. _Political spectacle?_ She asked herself. _Fake news?_ She had seen the pictures. How was any of that just a ‘stunt’? 

 

But people at her work moved on. Since there was no terrorism, and no one could lay blame to ISIS or a White Supremacist group, they didn’t want to dwell on it. Rebekah took to asking Staci who had been so certain when she announced the news.

 

“There’s probably an explanation.” The woman said distractedly, staring at her monitor. “Does it matter?”

 

“Staci, a hospital disappeared for hours and then showed back up. You don’t find that strange?”

 

“No.” Staci blinked. “I mean, that’s not what happened. They say it never vanished at all. Just faulty reports and politicians acting like idiots. Not really surprising to me.”

 

The way she and her co-workers cast it off was baffling. “But it doesn’t make sense. Something like that doesn’t happen every day.”

 

“Oh, sure it does, sweetie. Remember the incoming missile alert in Hawaii. They panicked but it ended up being a load of crap.”

 

Of course Rebekah remembered the missile alert, which caused hundreds of thousands of residents in Hawaii to struggle to prepare for their own demise. Was that truly a good parallel to this situation? She shook her head and slowly walked away as she stared at her phone. She read staff stories from Wellington Hospital attesting to the fact that nothing happened except for a loss of their Wi-Fi for a good few hours. Daunting to many but hardly a life or death crisis. 

 

It seemed so entirely credible. Ill-advised reports or leaks. The wrong location and address reported. After all, Rebekah had the entire misfortune of having to go to Wellington Medical Center when she fell down an escalator at the Paddington Station. The entire time of her visit, she felt overwhelmed by trepidation and disdained the place for a reason she couldn’t entirely fathom. Now it was in the news. 

 

These events sounded eerily similar although it defied reason. Anxiety cramped her stomach as she looked on her desk at the location where the missing TARDIS had occupied. 

 

 _No._ She told herself. She wouldn’t accept events in rag magazines as factual because she had been taught to look for credible sources. That would be an insult to her intelligence. Distantly, she remembered how the Eleventh Doctor would peruse for information in Victorian London among Street Prophets in ‘The Snowmen’. 

 

She bit her tongue fiercely as a sharp reprimand. Rebekah wasn’t experiencing the events of a television show. She knew she wasn’t. This was real life. Brutal, raw, painstaking and agonizing but all the same, real. There was no slipping through cracks into another reality. Such things she would have recollected.

 

Besides, if she entertained such notions, she would rightly be judged as truly insane.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

She checked with Denise, the administrator for their building whether her TARDIS had turned up only she referred to it at a pewter British telephone booth jewelry box. Given the reaction, most of her office didn’t know about the show Doctor Who or much less other British television shows. Staci and Maria, who worked with the treasury department watched the BBC Sherlock but that was the limit to their cultural indulgences. 

 

She was met with profound disappointment when Denise informed her that nothing had turned up, pewter or otherwise. The item had been sentimental, bought shortly after her father’s death. For a time, she kept only the jewelry that he had bequeathed to her within it. An amber topaz ring, a blue topaz and diamond heart necklace since he had taken to giving heart shape jewelry as a symbol of his affection. A Baroque style pearl necklace, which differed from the typical ordinary pearl in the sense that it was a misshapen, lumpy fresh water pearl.  

 

These things were precious to her. Reminders but hardly fitting replacements of the man she dearly loved so it was with some disappointment that the TARDIS had likely been stolen, never to be seen again.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Rebekah sat on a seat on BART, the mass transit train that made its way into San Francisco to pay a visit to her brother. During the summer, he lived the life of a single adventurer while her niece and sister in law spent their time in Spain. Truthfully, she knew he was a devoted father but still had the mind to have fun just as in all his former years. But these meetings were strained given that their past was not very cordial. Certainly, on her part, forgiveness seemed to be easy to offer. Forgetting her abuse and indignity was more complicated. _How does one forget?_ Rebekah mused and looked at her laptop. She was simply writing in her journal, which she kept as a word document and wrote occasionally as the mood struck her since the time her father had been bedridden in hospice. In looking over those entries from that period, she did not seem like herself. 

 

 _Who is that anyway?_ She thought and then she started to type. ‘ _If I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame, if you were to depart, I am afraid that cord of communion will snap and I will take to bleeding inwardly.’ I am bleeding inwardly just as Charlotte Bronte composed and the events of the last few days amplify it. Nothing seems real. First, someone stole my TAR_ —

 

“Jane Eyre.” Someone spoke from behind her, with a tone distinctly familiar but she couldn’t place. “Love that book. Would you believe I have the original? Also, read it two thousand and thirty-two times at my last count but I might have forgotten. You write very well and—"

 

“Excuse me.” She hadn’t yet turned. _Seriously, was this really happening for the fourth time on BART? Where is the respect of privacy?_ “Are you completely deficient of manners that you would read someone’s private writing without even asking consent or do you not take consent seriously? What is your—” She was about to say ‘problem’ but had swiveled to face the stranger head on and her throat went dry. She was dumbstruck for a moment and then felt heat rising to her face. Shame and embarrassment. _Oh God, going off on David Tennant of all people!_ She would never live this down. Was anyone else on the train watching the scene or recording this with their phones?

 

No. Not yet. The few people there hadn’t yet seen him. So far, that little piece of luck was on her side. “I’m sorry.” She rectified immediately. “I…I didn’t see you.”

 

He waved his hand diffidently, raising his eyebrows at her sudden change in demeanor. “She always told me I was rude. Didn’t really listen.”

 

“Sorry?” Rebekah asked in confusion. “Who?”

 

He grinned, seeming to switch in an instant from one mood to another, like lightning. “Doesn’t matter. Mind if I sit here?”

 

“Well, I guess-“

 

“Perfect.” He simply pushed in beside her as she struggled to snatch her San Francisco State sweatshirt from the accompanying seat before he sat on that as well as her laptop case. She managed to extricate one of them but wasn’t quick enough for her case and he seemed not to notice that he was sitting on the lumpy bag. “So, what’s your name?”

 

 _No one._ She thought miserably but knew that wouldn’t suffice. However, given the predicament, she didn’t want her real name to be associated with her own disrespect to the actor. So, she contrived a fictional one, ready-made that she’d previously used. What did it matter? He wouldn’t know the difference.

 

“Sara Thomas.” She said after a moment, thinking of her own story ‘Lost in Time’. It would work as an effective alias. 

 

“Brilliant. Lovely name. I’m the Doctor.”

 

She glanced quickly at the man still sitting on her laptop case. Of course. He was in costume.

 

Perhaps he was in town for a convention. She hadn’t heard of one specifically but then, there were reasons she kept out of San Francisco and didn’t track events as she used to. The violence that erupted occasionally due to counter protestors and rioters did not act as an effective draw. She didn’t relish being hit by misfired rocks again. 

 

But all the same, she didn’t feel up to playing. Was she being recorded? She sighed. It wasn’t her first or even second encounter with actors. Her best friend worked as a public relations officer for television and movie sets to advise on accuracy. She had benefited from Beth’s role and even been to the Emmys. She knew they could be…eccentric. Rebekah fell quiet, uncertain as how to respond. She wasn’t up to the pretense of asking ‘Doctor Who?’ but all the same, he would expect her to say something.

 

“How very rewarding.” She managed a conservative response that she hoped would satisfy the situation.

 

“Americans.” He muttered. “Thought you lot were a lot more curious. Outspoken. ‘Give me liberty or give me—"

 

“Perhaps you should visit elsewhere.” She advised. “I suppose I’ve forgotten my pride.” She started to stand up seeing that they were approaching the Embarcadero exit. It wasn’t her intended departure point but she felt disconcerted from being here. “This is me.” She gestured to the door.

 

“Sara.” He said, from behind her. “I’m just lost.”

 

“What? Lost? I don’t know what you mean. I—"

 

“Cemeteries. Do you know where yours is?”

 

“Cemeteries. In San Francisco?” Rebekah asked, askance.

 

“Yes, the one with statues.”

 

“You mean Mission St. Delores Cemetery. It’s—"

 

“Perfect!” He rolled back on his heels and suddenly ran to the exit without so much as a ‘goodbye’.

 

“But that’s the wrong—” The doors of the train closed behind him. “Exit.” She finished. That was maddening. If he was searching for that cemetery, it was on the opposite end of the City. She licked her dry lips, thinking she would get off at the next station and take an Uber the rest of the way to her brother’s apartment when she felt something hit her foot.

 

Glancing down, she saw a long, tube like, metallic object and she picked it up to examine it.

 

 “Oh you must be kidding.” A toy sonic screwdriver. Well, it had to be a toy or prop. Quickly, she shoved it into her laptop bag and stared at the sliding doors for which he just departed. She dearly hoped wherever he was heading, he wouldn’t require it.

 

But who knew really? Trying to fathom the actor’s motivations was not how she wanted to spend her day after all, she had readily humiliated herself. She asserted to herself that she would try to put this event behind her. 

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

“So, first of all the United States owns Puerto Rico, so we are part of the United States.”

 

They had been spending a pleasant enough afternoon at Delores Park until the next table over, a woman in her late twenties with the Puerto Rican flag emblazoned in her shirt was being hassled by a man walking in the inebriated, staggering stride of one who was so clearly wasted.

 

A police officer was in the nearby vicinity. He turned to watch the exchange but did not step in to intercede. Nothing.

 

“We don’t own Puerto Rico.” The drunkard argued. “They’re not part of us. Are you even educated?”

 

The poor girl tried to speak but was cut off. “Why does he protect Puerto Rico?” He snarled. “We don’t own it. It’s not a state, as in the United States of America.”

 

“Okay.” The girl drew the word out into several syllables, clearly disgusted not wishing to continue the exchange. It appeared she had a cake box in tow. She was celebrating a birthday.

 

“So what’s your point now?” He challenged.

 

“Well, what’s your point, sir?” The woman asked. 

 

“My point is why are you wearing that?” He indicated towards her shirt.

 

“Because I can.” She stated as she glanced at the nearby police man for help. “Officer can you please help? I have a permit to use this area.”

 

“You’re not renting any of this.” He accused. 

 

“I did rent it. Could you please step away from me, sir?” She looked pleadingly at the officer who still did nothing.

 

“You need to have a permit.”

 

“I do have a permit.” She paused. “Officer, this man is harassing me. Could you please grab him?” and truth be told, he was getting fearfully close. 

 

“You’re not going to change us, you know.” 

 

“I’m not trying to change you. If you just leave me alone—"

 

Rebekah stepped forward in her defense. “What is your problem?” She asked. “Puerto Rico is part of the United States. She,” she gestured to the girl, “is an American and is proud of her origins.”

 

“She should not be wearing that in the United States of America.”

 

“Right.” The brunette glared at him. “America first, right?”

 

“That’s right. Born and bred.” He stated with pride.

 

“So, why are you wearing clothes made in Bangladesh, especially after a fire broke out in their factory killing over a hundred people?” She paused. 

 

“Who cares about that?” He muttered but looked a little stupefied.

 

“Perhaps you should change first, considering your clothes are less patriotic than what she’s wearing.” Her voice was cool.

 

“Libtard traitor.” He spewed. “This city is a shithole and…” he paused. “What are you doing?” He demanded.

 

“Calling the police. You approached her threateningly when she had a permit to use the space.” She finally put down the phone in her purse. “They’ll be here in five minutes.” She glared at him. “And I’m a moderate, just so you know.”

 

She didn’t hear the slap coming. It rang inside her head and muffled the sound in her ears. She clutched her face, looking at the person in outright shock, unable to find the words in response. Not with the pain she currently resided in. What had he been thinking?

 

“Commy traitor.” He spewed amongst other foul language she didn’t care to hear. 

She felt the pain and indignation boiling inside her worse than before. How much more could she take? She had watched her father die and then in quick succession two friends dear to her. Her last year had been spent going to funerals! It seemed like an endless parade of coffins and memorial services. Then she endured the uncertainty and fear of the Northern California fires for which her relatives and co-workers went missing. And it seemed that through the whole of that tedium, there were those that were apathetic to the disaster or worse; they celebrated it. California was finally getting their comeuppance. A shithole state indeed. 

 

She lost sight in the single injury dealt to her in that moment and her temper unduly flared, wishing too he would her repay for every thought and unkind deed she had endured. She couldn’t think through that anger nor try to temper herself. To her coming regret, she didn’t even try.

 

_I wish…._

 

Suddenly the street lamps sparked and sizzled. Glass flew every which way. _No!_  

 

She felt panic. Shards hit the man who was perpetrating such bile and she saw the blood.

 

The glass and plastic casing protecting the lamps had broken free and tore into her sweatshirt, grazing her arms. He was clutching his face and she couldn’t tell with all the blood whether his eye was injured or…. 

 

She felt nausea at the coppery smell of blood. Oh, she despised what he was saying but she didn’t want this. How could this have occurred? Her mind was struggling to work through the quandary but she felt something. An object was warm against her leg. Very warm. She was reminded of the times when her phone or laptop became overheated but they weren’t powered on and were kept safe in her laptop bag, dangling from her shoulder.

 

So, what else could it be? 

 

In a daze, she fumbled in the pocket of her bag and gasped as her hand contacted the cylinder tube of which David Tennant had dropped when he ran off to, well…she assumed his convention since he had taken pains to get into character for the event in the few minutes he spent with her. She lifted it out and could only stare at it. The item was alit. It wasn’t limited to the blue light at the very end of the sonic but the silver tube radiated a diffuse light that warmed further under her hand.

 

And then to her own shock and horror, she saw numbers and letters streaming on the surface similar to a three-dimensional pattern as she was used to seeing in her work with graphics on a topographical scale but this was even more defined. They appeared to her as solid objects but as she ran her hand over them…nothing. There was no substance to them.

 

She was filled with disbelief at the very evidence in her hand.

 

One she couldn’t ignore.

 

It wasn’t a toy. Not a replica or a prop.

 

It was real.

 

She dropped it back in her bag, sinking to the ground, feeling as though she would hyperventilate. If this was real than the man she met on the train who she took as David Tennant…

 

 _No!_ She thought in desperation. _No! No! No!_  

 

Her vision blurred in front of her. She didn’t come back to herself until she was faced with a paramedic who had been trying to gain her attention for the last five minutes.

 

“I’m fine.” She managed.

 

He didn’t believe her and she couldn’t say she really blamed him.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

“Any pain?” The emergency room physician asked as he performed the sutures on her arm.

 

Rebekah glanced up at him, torn away from her thoughts. “No.” She said quietly. “Just, um…sorry.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Sorry it happened.”

 

“I think the City will be sorrier since they will likely be footing the bill. The media and attorneys are already circling this event. Of course, the County is trying to place blame on the Utility Company but when they call you—"

 

“Call me?” She looked up in panic. Did they already know she was at fault? Her stomach cramped at the mere thought.

 

“Of course they’ll call you and that inebriated fool.” Dr. Cole rolled his eyes. “They’ll want to make a settlement offer.”

 

 _Settlement._ She had to piece the sense of it together and then realized. Of course. Money to dismiss any liability against them. _But it’s a lie._ She couldn’t do it. Not a lie like this. She wasn’t even up to half truths at this point. What was the point? Something horrific had happened to bring the Doctor into her reality. Her existence. 

 

But what? Everything else seemed the same. Her family was still her family. There were no cracks. No white lights. Nothing that might explain this. 

 

Then still, events had proceeded this, which she had determinedly sidelined. Her disappearing pewter TARDIS. The vanishing and reappearance of Wellington Medical Center, which was blamed on a combined attempt of a political stunt of Theresa May and the media. And despite the inconsistency of that information, she simply accepted it because she was educated to only use ‘credible sources’. 

 

 _My disappearing TARDIS._ She thought shakily. _When did that happen? When did I notice that? A week ago? Two?_

 

“Rebekah?” Dr. Cole asked, attempting to get her attention. “I have discharge paperwork and instructions to follow for—"

 

“It’s my fault.” She blurted out, cutting him off mid-sentence.

 

“What is?” He asked in confusion.

 

“The lamps. I didn’t mean it. He hit me and…”

 

Dr. Cole paused. He wasn’t told there was a head injury and his patient hadn’t volunteered information until just now. He sighed. “We should order an MRI.”

 

“No!” She couldn’t do that, having developed Claustrophobia from her experiences with her father who had endured many hospital visits and MRI’s. She knew the pain they caused him and born witness to several medical procedures that even walking through a hospital for her best friend’s expected birth was a trial in anxiety.

 

She saw the physician’s puzzled expression. “You may have a concussion. It is only a precaution.” He advised candidly.

 

“I meant…” She licked her lips. “No. About the lamps. I did it.” She knew it was pointless to attempt to avail herself of protection by any means of local authority. If the Doctor was real… _Oh God, the Doctor is real._ The chills went right down her spine. But what could she do? Her perfidy with the lamps and the sonic would soon be discovered regardless. She had to reconcile herself to her fate, wherever that may lead.

 

Slowly, she reached into her laptop bag, took hold of the sonic and extended it toward Dr. Cole with one hand as she felt herself quaver in trepidation.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

+++SI++DW++SI+++

_It’s just down the road. Wouldn’t get much. Just to take the edge off…_ But Helene knew that it was a lie. She’d make some excuse to buy a larger—or the largest—bottle of whatever alcohol perked her fancy at the time then go home to drink it. 

 

It had started off small. Just a third of a shot to help her sleep. Then two-thirds. Then a full shot. Her low tolerance for alcohol became much higher. Excuses to drink started with helping her sleep, then to help with pain, then became a desire for the taste itself. She liked it. Liked how it made her feel. 

 

But she knew it was a slippery slope. She’d always known but didn’t think it would get so bad so fast. Though perhaps not so fast. A few years in the making.

 

Yet here she was, thinking that the excuse of her period starting was good enough to go get another bottle. _Just the small one. Long Island Iced Tea is good._ And she had only finally drained the fifth of Vanilla Crown Royal the night before. 

 

Helene had a good idea of why she drank, and it wasn’t just for the taste. It was the effect. It made her not care as much. She could be at least momentarily content with her life as it was currently. Only her job in her life. Bored. An endless sea of stupidity and students in front of her. Lonely.

 

Irony loved her so much. She had moved in next door to her parents because she’d known that it was the only way she’d move out of the house at all. Her parents, her father in particular, was too overprotective to allow anything else. Yet since she’d moved last August, making this her one-year anniversary— _That’s a good reason to drink. Celebration!_ —she barely saw her parents anymore. Not even in passing. The idea of family dinners once a month had been tossed out, but nothing became of it. They didn’t visit and she now felt that going over to the main house without an express invitation was an intrusion. 

 

She wanted to forget, if only for a little while, that she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t sure if she was in fact miserable, but she knew she wasn’t happy. She didn’t even think she was content. Though she also knew that life could be so very worse. She’d lived through such after all. _Ugh, Her. Excellent reason for a drink._ But those years were behind her. Shouldn’t her life be more...more? 

 

 _With such depressing thoughts, is it any wonder I probably drink more than I should?_ However, alcohol was a depressant, so not such a good thing to drink to get happy. She was a happy drunk though. Not as much as happy as lately she’d wanted to be.

 

While at work, it wasn’t difficult to push aside thoughts of the beverage, but when she got in her car and prepared to go home, niggling thoughts began to intrude. She doubted that was a good sign. 

 

She’d been playing with the idea that she might be an alcoholic for a few months. Her therapist hadn’t been helpful in the least with a diagnosis either. _‘You’re an alcoholic if you feel like one,’ indeed. Not helpful!_ So she had tried to cut back on her drinking and had been marginally successful. But trying to cut it out completely was so far at 28 hours and counting. She really wanted to go get a new bottle. _Just something to tide me over until my period stops._ Which she knew would be a lie. She wasn’t in too much pain at the moment. _But if I wait until I’m in too much pain to go to the store, then what will I do? You know the second and third days are worse. Go get a bottle while you can!_  

 

There were so many reasons why not to get that new bottle. Health. Weight gain. She was already 40 pounds overweight. It wasn’t going to get better with the amount she’d been drinking regularly. She’d kept a small cold for months now since her immune system didn’t seem to get a boost because of the alcohol consumption. 

 

Yet the thoughts gnawed at her…

 

It wouldn’t take much, she knew. Just a little splash in the bottom of her liquid measuring cup. And since it was a school night and she had work in the morning, it would stay at just a splash. _Right? I can hold onto my self-control that much. Can’t I?_ Shit. It almost sounded like she was talking herself  into getting a bottle, not out of it. 

 

Take her mind off things. Reading! She loved to read. She’d go find something new... 

 

But after 20 minutes of searching with zero interest in anything catching her eye, she stopped. Sighed. Her brain discontented, tired, and… Loneliness clawed at her. Just as much as her boredom with those around her. They were just so...stupid. Even the ones that weren’t as stupid as the others seemed to enjoy complaining for the sake of complaining, without any expectation of resolving issues. That bothered her more than the stupidity. 

 

She recalled the recent phone call to get her car fixed. It went along the lines of 

 

_"When would you like to bring in your vehicle?"_

_"I'm not available Tuesday or Thursday. Otherwise, you tell me and I'll show up."_

_"Alright-y, not a problem. How about tomorrow?"_

_".......Tomorrow is a Thursday."_

 

It had devolved from there. She finally got a straight answer from the man who brought her car at 7:30 am on Friday, despite the fact she’d be able to pick up a rental car for the in-between time to get her from her job and then to return home… It was nice, the rental cars. They reminded her how much she liked her own vehicle. No big bells or whistles, just a good car. No vibrating steering wheel that she was getting close to a white line and scaring the crap out of her. No annoyingly persistent dinging noise to tell her that her seatbelt was unfastened while she got the gate to the property; their driveway just long enough to constantly hear that damned noise. Though, to be fair, the butt-warmers built into the newer car seats were awesome. Her Lexi didn’t have those. Whomever thought of seat-warmers was a genius. And unknown genius she would never meet...

 

“Son of a bitch!” Helene growled and finally got out of bed. She’d go get the damned bottle.

 

Maybe it was an adult version of a security blanket.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

When she got back to the house, Helene very carefully measured out one ounce of Long Island Iced Tea—she had managed to talk herself out of the largest bottle on the way there and only got the small bottle, which was a bit of a victory in itself. 1.5 ounces constituted a shot of alcohol and what she had was a mixed drink, so one ounce on a school night didn’t make her an alcoholic. 

 

Right?

 

But there again, she knew she had become tolerant enough in her consumption that one ounce wasn’t going to give her the small buzz she sought. She had steadily gotten an exponential increase in her tolerance the last few months. Now if she wanted to even get a bit tipsy, she’d need to drink a couple of glasses of the Tea. However, if she was to successfully convince herself that she wanted the taste more than the buzz, a single ounce would have to do.

 

Regardless of how she wanted to swallow the one ounce down in a single mouthful and pour herself another.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Life conspired against her sometimes. 

 

A couple months previous had lost her a long-standing friendship. Everything had gone to hell after that. Though she supposed it had been before that the trouble started. The large work project she’d been part of at the time had soaked up all her mental energy to the point where she could barely think straight in which to teach and even some of those days had left her blank. Standing in front of the white board with an absolute blank in her mind. Not good; though her students had thought it was funny.

 

It took Helene about two days to figure out how much she had been relying on Bekka to help stabilize herself. She’d never noticed before the blow-up. Yes, she shared blame in that she’d been a bit vague in how she’d initially sent the email that instigated the whole thing, but it had snowballed on her so damned fast she was still reeling two months later. In the space of a couple hours she had gone from a three-year friendship to a nothing-ship. 

 

She still wasn’t sure why. It ate at her. Why didn’t she send another email? 

 

But it also was so strange. Bekka had a weird habit of apologizing for things that didn’t matter. Yet when something like this happened, the woman was confrontational, accusatory, and outright mean. Helene had almost called the cell phone number she had—if only to say ‘what the hell?!’ —but stopped herself before she could finish the motions. She’d tried to call Bekka a couple times before and had never gotten through. That had been when Rebekah had supposedly liked her. Now? Highly doubtful.

 

So Helene got to understand how often she thought of Bekka and how much she emailed the woman about...well, pretty much everything. Now, with the finality of their nothing-ship, that was taken from her. Helene didn’t have many friends. Practically none. She had acquaintances and coworkers. That was it. She never developed the skill of ‘social butterfly’; she’d been the strange, weird kid who got good grades, whose nose was in a book, and watched clouds for an alien spaceship to take her away.

 

Helene sighed, felt the yawning echo of loneliness and went to pour herself another ounce of Tea.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

She had no idea when it happened, but sometime in the last few weeks, someone had delved into her office and stolen her Doctor Who coloring book. She didn’t know because coloring as saved for special occasions when she felt the need to unwind. The last time she had colored was when the summer semester had just started.

 

Now a new unfortunate occasion there was a pedantic fellow coworker had decided to take it upon herself, with absolutely no warning, to clean out the break room refrigerator. On the surface, there was nothing wrong with that. Even commendable. But Jean had thrown away food that was perfectly fine—pickles; food that didn’t have an expiration date because it never went bad—as well as Helene’s own freshly-bought-just-that-morning lunch. Helene was understandably angry, but Jean couldn’t manage to care despite Helene’s complaints.

 

Thus, Helene had opened the drawer she kept her secret coloring book at work...and saw nothing but the coloring pencil packet. “What?” she whispered. Who would steal a coloring book? The only people who should have a key was herself, Vina, the coordinator of the building who liked her, the utility maintenance workers, cleaning staff, and campus security. She sighed. She’d never seen a coloring book like it and likely never would again. Which was probably why it had been taken. 

 

Her squishy Adipose stress-toy was also gone.

 

There was no use in filing a complaint either. Being a modern-day tattle day was frowned upon and it would cause her coworkers to despise her for such a lapse in judgment and she was already skating on thin ice in her profession. She took a deep breath knowing she would just deal with it.

 

“To hell with it, I’ll see if I can find another,” she muttered and turned back to her laptop. 

 

However, a quick Amazon and eBay search for ‘Doctor Who coloring book’ yielded _no hits_. Not just no DW coloring books, but it brought up odd things. Dr. Strange and other Marvel coloring books. Dr. Octopus with Spiderman coloring books. Star Trek featuring Dr. McCoy and Dr. Crusher. Dr. Nick from the Simpsons. Dr. Gregory House.

 

Lots of doctors, but nothing Doctor Who. Not even non-coloring book DW paraphernalia. 

 

It was as if Doctor Who wasn’t an extremely popular television series. Which it was. Huge; even in the U.S. Which also didn’t quite make sense as even esoteric items could be found on Amazon. Out of commission items could (usually) be found on eBay. So why…?

 

“Weird,” she said. 

 

However, since she wasn’t much of a coloring book person, Helene shut down her laptop and made her way home. It was Friday. She’d pour herself a shot of Vanilla Crown Royal, settle down, and write a (hopefully polite) email to Jean about posting a sign for a couple days beforehand the next time the woman got the itch to clean out the fridge.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Helene was reaching to put on her earrings one day, getting ready for work, when she noticed that her three sets of Doctor Who earrings were missing. She had a pair of Weeping Angels, a pair of “timey-wimey wibbly-wobbly” written in Gallifreyan circle-script, and a pair of little TARDIS’. All were gone. 

 

She frowned at the spot, not liking the idea that someone could’ve broken into her home. But she hadn’t noticed anything else taken and her DW earrings were certainly not the most expensive items in her house. Nothing most would even think to steal. Her television was at least four times more valuable.

 

It was like the coloring book and Adipose squishy. Just…gone. 

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

“Sam?” Helene asked when she saw the red-headed woman walking down the hall. “Have you seen my DW earrings lately? I’ve lost them.”

 

Samantha was one of the few people she knew who had Doctor Who addiction. Samantha was even worse than Helene herself; Sam had dressed as the Eleventh Doctor last year and taken personal time to attend WhoCon. So involved was she, that she had constructed her own hand-made costume to celebrate the event.

 

Which made Sam’s reaction to the question all the more shocking. “What? What is D-W?” The way she carefully pronounced the letters indicated her lack of recognition. 

 

“…” Helene stared at her colleague. “Doctor Who?” she asked hesitantly, piecing the words out as if they were separate sentences. As if that would help her coworker to remember.

 

“Doctor Who,” Sam answered as if she was asking a question. Or confirming what she had heard.

 

“An alien travels to other times and planets. Has adventures.” She was getting a bad feeling. A really, really bad feeling.

 

Sam grinned. “Adventures make one late for supper,” she quoted the Tolkien. 

 

“Right,” Helene said. She didn’t know what else to say. The shift from one highly-popular fandom to another making her mind go blank. Other than the two sharing the ‘fiction’ category, they weren’t much alike at all. Science fiction versus fantasy.

 

“Sorry about your earrings, but I can’t remember seeing any laying around. I’ll keep an eye out though.” Sam gestured back the way she’d been facing. “I gotta get to class.”

 

“Yeah. Take care.” Helene nodded and made her way to her office, her mind reeling with the new bits of information. 

 

It was over the next two weeks that Helene had been unscrupulous and asked anyone and everyone about Doctor Who, trying to find at least one individual who remembered the show. She eventually came to the conclusion that she was the only one, but that nothing else seemed to have changed in the world around her. However by the time she came to such, her parents had already begun to worry about her sanity with her seemingly erratic behavior and insisted she see a therapist. Though she already saw one on an as-needed basis.

 

Her coworkers also told her to see a therapist. And her boss. In the end, Helene went to shut them up. They couldn’t legally make her, but it was a good idea so that she’d still have a job next year. While they couldn’t fire her for this, they could decide not to re-hire her. She rather liked being able to pay her bills, thank you very much.

 

Thus started a chain of psychologists and eventually her meeting one Dr. Lecter. She gave a small at the likeness of the name but the photograph on his website was different. The man was in his fifties.

 

 +++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Helen sighed as she was going through her shelves, trying to empty another couple boxes and put things away. She still couldn’t find her previous writing journal. It had vanished into some box somewhere during the move and the Lord only knew where it might be. If it had even made it to the house! She was seriously starting to wonder at this point, almost a year since she had moved in.

 

It was as she was clearing off the highest shelf by her fireplace that a small flat black wallet fell. Her eyes had caught the movement as it slid off the pile of papers she had grabbed, reached too slowly to catch it before it hit her on the head, but fast enough so that the wallet didn’t go much farther. “Ow,” she muttered, though she wasn’t hurt. It was just a verbal reflex.

 

She frowned at the thin bit of leather. “What?” she asked the air. It was the psychic paper that Rebekah had sent her some months previous. Looking similar to the first time she’d seen it and stuck it on the shelf. She hadn’t used it, merely keeping it as a souvenir, because she needed the larger checkbook-size to carry in her purse for her checkbook and various cards which were too numerous for the smaller wallet.

 

“What?” she asked again. _All the other Doctor Who stuff has vanished into thin air. No one remembers the Doctor…and yet here is the toy psychic paper wallet. It doesn’t make sense! Why would this still be here if everything else disappeared?_  She’d gone through all the Doctor Who items she kept out and it had all vanished. From her Doctor Who earrings, to her Doctor Who t-shirts (a favorite was her Winnie the Pooh dressed as the Fourth Doctor, her favorite shirt; another was Pikachu as the Tenth Doctor and blue screwdriver), a large printout of a Doctor Who themed My Little Pony picture she’d found on the internet, an Eleventh Doctor plushie, four coffee mugs, two alarm clocks, and half a dozen keychains. All vanished without a trace from various locations. Her home, her car, and her office. 

 

Also, she’d checked. No Doctor Who stories she’d printed out and stuck in binders were around. The binders were still there, but they didn’t hold anything. Any bookmarks she’d saved in Google Chrome for Doctor Who stories had been deleted. Any stories she’d copy-pasted into Word or OneNote and saved on her hard-drive were gone, as well as deleted from her backup thumb drives. 

 

The Doctor Who fandom had vanished from FanFiction.Net and Twisting the Hellmouth. ‘A Teaspoon and an Open Mind’, the main Doctor Who-only fanfiction website no longer existed at all. ‘My Mad Man with a Box’, a subsection of Wattpad, had disappeared.

 

All gone.

 

Now the psychic paper wallet was staring at her. In her hand.

 

She flipped it open. She didn’t know why she did so. Probably out of curiosity. It wasn’t as if she’d put anything in it. The item still should have its tags. She’d never used it after all.

 

Except…it didn’t. 

 

And it wasn’t empty.

 

“Oh my God,” Helene’s eyes grew terribly wide as she gazed down.

 

Originally, the toy that Bekka had sent her held two cards: one plain piece of blank paper (that was supposed to be the psychic paper) and an artificially aged library card for the First Doctor, his picture in a little square; along with several empty slots for other cards that the owner may need. It was a toy, but it was also made to use. Since she hadn’t put anything in it, Helene hadn’t cut off the tags. It had also been flexible to be used as the Doctor had in the show, flipping open and shut easily with just a twist of the wrist; yet it was new enough that it would prefer to be closed. One had to use a finger to keep it open.

 

However, the tags weren’t there now. Not as if someone had cut them off recently, but as if they had _never_ been there to begin with. She swallowed and twisted her wrist to check the flexibility of the leather. It bent with frightening ease. Snapping open and staying that way. As if it had been used for years just for this very purpose. The leather was obviously heavily used. Aged. Creased and wrinkled from wear. 

 

It was the cards though that caught her attention the most. The one in the left pocket was blank, just as it had been before. But it wasn’t just a blank card anymore. It had a…shimmer…that was visible even through the clear plastic covering. Like someone had taken the surface iridescence of soap bubbles and put it on paper. But with geometric designs. 

 

“Fractals,” she whispered, staring at the shimmering iridescent interlocking spirals of triangles. That were constantly moving. Even as she stared, the triangles moved. Gliding ever-so-slightly across the surface. It wasn’t obvious or fast. Yet definitely occurring. In the space of thirty seconds it went from interlocking spirals of triangles to connecting six-pointed stars. Another minute and they had changed again to a more Celtic design of interweaving ribbons. 

 

It was also pristine beneath those shimmering iridescent shapes; bright white with no wrinkles, creases, or torn edges.

 

Which was in direct contrast to the second card…and it was no longer a library card. The right side of the wallet now held a ratty and faded--wrinkled from excessive use and long age--a card with the Seventh Doctor’s face on the left side.

 

Across the top it said:  _United Nations Intelligence Taskforce_ –– _Identification Card_ .

The right side of the card read

 

_Full Name: John Smith, Doctor_

_Professional Name: The Doctor_

_Place of Birth: Classified_

_Date of Birth: Classified_

_Rank: Scientific Adviser, UNIT UK_

_Number: 221176_

_Security Clearance: Majestic-12 & Above Top-Secret_

 

_Approved by: Brigadier A.G. Lethbridge Stewart (Officer Commanding, UNIT UK)_

 

Slightly above the ‘approved by’ was the signature of the Brigadier General. Or was meant to be. Looked a bit like a stamp to her. A signature-stamp. Many officials who held lots of jobs that required their signature had one made for them to make things easier, faster, and more efficient.

 

There were no other slots for more cards. 

 

If she didn’t know better, she’d think she was holding a completely different wallet than the toy she’d been gifted with. _Isn’t that exactly what happened? It’s…It’s not a toy anymore…_ It took her mind less than a minute to absorb what she was seeing and come to the obvious conclusion.

 

It was REAL psychic paper. She was holding the REAL Doctor’s wallet. 

 

 _The Doctor is real here!_   

 

She’d come to the conclusion that she was more than likely in another version of reality. Another dimension. But nothing had really changed other than that the Doctor Who television show no longer existed. Everything else looked fine. History looked the same. (At least the major events she’d looked up had been identical to her memories.) Her parents still acted the way she always remembered. Everyone she knew were alive. 

 

The only difference was the BBC show Doctor Who seemingly vanishing into thin air. She could live with that easily enough. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It didn’t impact her life overly much after all. Sure she missed the show, but it was fiction. An escape from reality. Entertainment for the masses.

 

Now though… 

 

 _I’m holding the equivalent of a nuclear weapon!_   

 

“Oh _God_ ,” Helene breathed as terror overcame her. _If anyone knew… If they found out…!_

 

She didn’t think anyone would think badly of her when she grabbed the Long Island Iced Tea and began to swallow several mouthfuls directly from the bottle. Her mind was decidedly blank for long minutes as she drank, her eyes stuck on the item as if looking away would cause it to explode, and absorbed the new knowledge.  

 

 _The Doctor._  

 

_He’s real._

 

_The Doctor is real._

 

_The Doctor is REAL…_

 

_I’ve got his psychic paper._

 

_I’m holding THE DOCTOR’s psychic paper!!!_

 

_All my other Doctor Who stuff disappeared but my toy psychic paper is now real….._

 

Helene suddenly dropped the bottle on the counter, forgetting about it entirely as she bolted for her sewing room. She ran to a stack of boxes she’d sorted by month earlier and began to dig through them frantically. 

 

Last Christmas her parents had given her a pile of Doctor Who toys. A few keychains, a bumper sticker a well-known actor, shirt, a bumper sticker, a TARDIS alarm clock…and the most critical; The Eleventh Doctor’s _sonic screwdriver_... 

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

**emptyvoices has posted this same story under the name “An Outcast in Time”**


	2. Chapter 2

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Helene wasn’t even sure if she knew if she wanted to find the screwdriver or not. Perhaps it too had vanished into the ether.  If she did find it, would it be the light plastic toy she remembered…or heavy solid metal as the Doctor was likely accustomed to holding? Real? Or a fake?

 

She remembered exactly which box it should be in. Top box; bottom corner next to the seal. She tore through the miscellaneous office items, pushing aside paper clips, binder clips, index cards, staples, and white out. She eventually got tired of pulling things out or pushing them aside and just up-ended the box. Her eyes searching frantically for that particular shade of gray.

 

Nothing.

 

Another three passes through the items (of all three up-ended boxes in the room) before she sat back, satisfied that the sonic screwdriver had vanished along with the rest of her toys. “Oh thank God,” she breathed. At least psychic paper couldn’t be tracked. _Wait...it can’t be tracked… Can it?_

 

“Shit,” Helene muttered, jumping to her feet again. She needed to make a Faraday cage in order to block any signal it might provide. And it needed to be made quickly. _But I don’t have those supplies here at the house. Where the hell can you get copper mesh at four in the afternoon on a Friday?_ At least it was early enough that places would still be open. Not the best time to go shopping, but considering the alternative, she’d deal with it.

 

She knew the general idea of how to create a Faraday cage and the actual mechanics were extremely simple. However, where to get the supplies was a mystery. _Wait, I’ve still got the chainmail stuff from high school somewhere._ She even thought she knew where it was. Probably. Maybe.

 

She needed a stop-gap measure until she could get the copper. Aluminum! _That’s a metal, though only God knows if it’ll work. Doesn’t a Faraday cage have to be a particular type of metal? Please God, if you are actually listening, please let this work._ Helene grabbed the aluminum foil from her kitchen cabinet she usually used to cover meals and began to make a triple-lined pouch. Then she slipped the psychic paper wallet into the pouch— _what if it’s picking up my panic?! I know it can pick up strong emotions and thoughts to receive them on the paper. What if it’s also transmitting to the ship? Oh god, oh god, oh god, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, STOP PANICKING!!!_ —then after a half-second pause opened her utility drawer and began to wrap the whole thing in duct tape.

 

Once that was done— _please God, please let this be enough for now_ —she took another couple swallows of Long Island Iced Tea and grabbed her car keys. She needed copper mesh for the Faraday cage. She had no idea where to find copper mesh...but she knew Home Depot sold copper wire.

 

Helene was halfway to the door when she realized that the duct taped, aluminum wrapped, psychic paper nuclear bomb was just sitting on her counter. In the open. Where anyone could see.

 

She dropped her keys, grabbed the wallet, and after a frantic look around her kitchen, stuck it in the bottom of her ice drawer. Then she took another mouthful of Tea, picked up her keys from where they’d landed on the floor, and once again headed for her car.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Finding copper wire hadn’t taken much in terms of an endeavor. There had been a very helpful director/assistant at the door that had told her what aisle it could be found. It had taken another hour however to actually buy the wire as she’d left her purse at the house.

 

When she finally made it back to the house with the copper wire, Helene found another obstacle in that she had no idea where her tools were. But she knew where to look. Another hour pawing through drawers and boxes finally purloined the necessary twin pliers. Then began the pain-staking process of creating copper mesh from copper wire. She couldn’t just wrap the thing in the wire. It wouldn’t work. (At least she’d never seen a Faraday cage that wasn’t metal mesh.) _But aluminum foil and duct tape WILL?! STOP PANICKING YOU IDIOT!!!_ By the time three a.m. rolled around, she was both stone sober, had a very empty bottle of Long Island Iced Tea haphazardly tossed towards the recycling pile, and one very small, very terrible looking, copper mesh pouch. Fortunately for her, it only needed two sides (because the wallet was small and flat). Unfortunately, even being small it had taken hours to create.

 

Her scratched and bloodied fingers finally grabbed the duct taped thing out of her freezer, stuck it carefully into the copper mesh baggie thing, then stuck the entire thing back in her freezer, at the very bottom of the ice drawer. _It’s as good a place as any, I suppose._

 

For the first time in a long time, she crashed into her bed and didn’t need alcohol to be asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

She was overweight for her height with dark auburn hair and pale eyes. A yellow sundress with little pink flower buds went down to just below her knees. Tan sandals cradled her feet. In all, she was rather unremarkable in her appearance. Which was to be expected for a pro-bono case file.

 

Apparently the five foot four inch tall twenty-nine year old was exceedingly proficient at running off her psychologists and psychiatrists. Leading her finally to his own office, since no one else would consent to treat her. The state-appointed cases were usually either really interesting or incredibly dull. He wondered which category this patient would fall into.

 

He held out his hand to invite her into his office. "Good morning, Miss Mitchell. It's a pleasure to meet you." His voice was a professionally pleasant tenor. He made a mental note to inquire about the fear he momentarily saw in her clear blue eyes before she forced it to dissipate. Another note on her habit of schooling her features. She shouldn’t play poker, but for the normal inattentive layman, it was adequate.

 

She waited for him to close the door, pointedly looking around the large space filled with books, avoiding his eyes perhaps, before answering. "Dr. Lecter," she faced him and stared him down. Or tried to. More impressive people than she had attempted the same and failed. "Let me be blunt, sir." Her accent was obvious, though more slight than most of his patients. "I am here because I have to be. Of the four psychologists and psychiatrists that I have seen, none have been any help whatsoever and I highly doubt you will be any different." Her tone was calm and even, though firm. Confident. Though wasn’t it interesting how her voice trembled ever so slightly? Practically inaudible. Fear again. She took to making a subtle glance at his business cards, no doubt making the association with the film version of the cannibal, ‘Dr. Hannibal Lecter’ for which he shared little in terms of the need to murder and of more relevance, to eat the bodies of his enemies. She wasn’t the first and would hardly be the last.

 

He chose only to nod slightly. "Thank you for your honesty. Though perhaps before you pass judgment on a stranger we should talk. To be sure that I cannot help you." He persuaded gently.

 

She gave a sigh but acquiesced as she sat in the chair opposite him. "It's nothing against you, Dr. Lecter. Given the references I received for your practice, I am certain you are the best in your field. However, my…situation is just so…abnormal that the training you received for your chosen profession is inadequate for this task. No one does."

 

He made a sound that could be interpreted as either understanding or simple acknowledgement that she spoke. "Please explain and then I will decide if I think I can help you." The sigh he got as a response let him know how many times she had heard the same phrase; he had to contain a smile. She was silent for so long he wondered if she would spend the rest of the hour in silence, but he knew he was infinitely more patient than the woman could ever hope to achieve.

 

She got to her feet after a few minutes and began to roam around the room, avoiding eye contact. Nervous energy. A small spark of fear in her posture gave him a mental note. Finally, she began to speak. "Let's go with a hypothetical situation. The real one is even stranger, but this will give you a general idea." A hand lifted to hold onto the window frame as she gazed out to the street beyond. Pale eyes found his occasionally as she settled back to lean against the wall. "What conclusions are you to draw, as a rational and sane individual, if something you took for granted suddenly changed?" She looked to the ceiling as she came up with an example for him. "Marshmallows are white and fluffy. All your memories of marshmallows and they have the exact same shape and color: white, cylindrical, and squishy. But one day, you get out your bag of marshmallows to put in your hot chocolate and realize that the marshmallow you pull out has a face on it." Her eyes were steady as she watched him, analyzing his body language and facial expression. He knew she would see nothing. He had plenty of practice putting on the appearance of being neutral. 

 

"You look in the bag and find all the marshmallows have faces. You look on the internet and it says that marshmallows have _always_ had faces. You talk to your colleagues and family and _they_ all say that marshmallows have always had faces.” She explained.  

 

"It's not like this detail of reality affects you in a monumental way. In most aspects, the fact that suddenly marshmallows have faces is completely irrelevant. You still put them in your hot chocolate and eat them. They still are a favorite campfire treat. But your memories of marshmallows, of how they should look, does not match what you see now. So, what is a sane individual to think?" Her eyebrow quirked at him, waiting for his answer.

 

"That is an interesting notion." He gestured with a hand in her direction. "What do you think?" Again he had caught a brief flash of fear in her eyes before she shut it down. One time could be explained away, even twice, as a reaction to a stranger. Three times however…there was something more here.

 

Her sudden glare, contrary to the fear, pulled him out of his thoughts as she answered. "One: somehow you just never noticed that marshmallows had faces. Unlikely, but possible." He nodded as she held up two fingers to begin a count. "Two: you know someone with absolutely no sense of humor and it's a prank gone too far." Another finger. "Three: it's a dream. Either you are dreaming now that marshmallows have faces, or you had an extremely vivid dream that they didn't." She gestured widely. "Four: you are delusional or hallucinating." He was a little impressed with her reasoning. It was very rational. Most humans were anything but….” She paused. “Five: it’s real."

 

"All very cogent possibilities. It could also be that your mind is trying to get your attention that something about the world around you is wrong. With those in mind, what is your conclusion?" Interesting how her fear vanished the more animated her gestures and enthusiasm became. She liked the mystery, the active communication.

 

She blew out a breath in a short burst. "Dreams make sense while you are having them. This doesn't. I don't know anyone with the resources to pull off a joke on this scale. If I'm delusional or hallucinating, there isn't much I can do about it but wait for whatever drugs they are giving me to take effect and pull me out of the state. And I would like to think that I am way more observant than most people, given my Attention Deficit Disorder. Which leaves reality." She moved back to the chair.

 

A fourth flash of fear as she settled into the seat opposite him, though it did not stop her continuing. "Quantum physics hypothesizes that there are infinitely many dimensions and universes, each slightly different from the previous. Assuming this is reality, I somehow crossed from one dimension to another without noticing, leaving me in this situation. Since I don't know how I came to be in this new dimension, the chances of going back to the original are almost non-existent." She was very matter-of-fact, which told him that she’d had this thought process for a long time and had already come to terms with her perceived state. "Then the question becomes: what to do now? Accept and move on? Try to go back? Change the dimension I'm currently in to what I know?" 

 

He was becoming more certain that she was quite sane, despite the childish example of marshmallows with faces, though he could easily see the misdiagnosis. Most of those who suffered from nervous breakdowns were not a danger to themselves or others and thus were not institutionalized. Just given medication, sent on their merry way, and treated as an out-patient, while they recovered at their home. It was her unique view that had caused the referral. It was her uniquely perfectly rational view that was convincing him she was anything but insane. Lonely. Afraid. Depressed. But certainly not insanity.

 

He made the acknowledging noise again in his throat as she stopped talking. A momentary pause to let her think he was pondering his answer, or ensuring she had finished her hypothetical, before he offered. "Changing the world around you is fundamental to existing. You will effect anything you come in contact with, as well as the things that interact with those you effect. Anyone suggesting dimensional travel will assume you speak in terms of science fiction, thus returning to your original world impossible. Especially since physics is not your field of study. I would suggest that you learn to live with your new surroundings, despite whatever differences may seem to alarm you, and make the most out of an odd situation or two." He spread his hands conclusively. “It’s simply your unique observation. What do you think?”

 

She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. "I had come to the same reasoning. But by that time, I had asked too many of the wrong questions to the wrong people. My co-workers for example. I was assigned for mandatory counseling."

 

"Ah. I see." He noticed their time with a practiced unobtrusive glance at a carefully positioned clock just mere inches over her head and rose to his feet. "In that case, may I suggest a friendly non-judgmental ear you may speak to freely would possibly be an asset?"

 

She tilted her head to the side to such a suggestion, yet another flash of fear, and slowly nodded. "Yeah. It would."

 

He smiled. "Then I will see you next week at the same time." This patient was indeed interesting.

 

She gave him a sweet, sad smile as she turned to leave. He saw her wince as her eyes moved past one of the magazines in his waiting area. It was one of the more popular news publications that he subscribed to for his patients. "Is there a problem, Miss Mitchell?"

 

She glanced up at him before looking away, telling him that whatever she said next would be a lie. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Not anymore."

 

He watched Helene Mitchell walk away and pondered how last month’s issue of Time  Magazine could make her despondent. Though perhaps it was the cover article on how a report on a hospital disappearing in London was a hoax perpetrated by the government for press in the last few weeks. It was certainly something to discuss next session.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

 A month passed with relative unease. Rebekah jumped every time the doorbell rang. When she heard her name being called. The first week, she was nearly afraid of her own shadow. What if today was the day they found her? What if the Doctor…

 

An image flashed through her mind. Her story of Sara Thomas that had been stripped from fanfiction as the entire Doctor Who fandom was eradicated. But she remembered it. Oh yes, she remembered how she acquainted herself with her character’s pain to write the scenes where Sara had starved herself, wishing for death in a room in which she’d been locked. The Doctor told her it would be her prison for the next sixty years.

 

_Prison…_ Rebekah clenched her hands together. The image of Sara being stuck under a stasis field was difficult to expunge. If the Doctor thought she was precognitive or time sensitive, there would be nowhere to run. He would be two steps ahead of her.

 

She ran her hands through her hair, clenching her jaw as she struggled to concentrate. To focus on her work. Given the settlement from the City of San Francisco, money wasn’t an immediate need but working helped keep her mind occupied.  A desperately needed commodity given her dark thoughts.

 

_He would have found me by now if he was looking._ Rebekah assured herself. _It will be fine._ Rebekah told herself. _It will all be fine._

Her email box chimed on her iPhone and she glanced down to see the issuer of the email and was dumbfounded. _How could she…?_ She frowned in her scrutiny. _Anna?_ Was it possible Anna remembered her and the story they wrote together, ‘Lost in Reality’? But what else could it be?

She shook her head. Anna knew her. She emailed her. Rebekah’s contact list was expunged of those she met through Doctor Who so the only reason Anna might email…

 

_Do you remember him too?_

At that point, she wanted to cry. To scream in resolute joy. Someone remembered. Anna remembered. She would remember her previous story ‘Reality’ and Lilly Brooks too. This was more than she could hope for.

 

_I thought I was mad. No one else knows._

 

She was careful. The wrong word would sound an alert at Torchwood and she wasn’t one to trust in charm. It was fool’s gold when it was peddled by Jack Harkness.

 

She tapped her keyboard, upon sending the email. Doctor Who was gone. Everything related to it had been obliterated.

 

_Obliterated._ She wondered whether the earth she knew previously had been destroyed much like Sara’s. Only this was silent and more corrosive. People didn’t die outright. They had been simply replaced. Overwritten as if they never were. Rebekah thought of the Stephen King book and film ‘The Langoliers’. When the few passengers became trapped in a pocket of time, they found themselves at the mercy of creatures who fed on time, given the nickname, Langoliers. But those creatures now seemed to have that darkened parallel to Reapers. Reapers consumed time too. She shuddered, wondering if that fate had been paid to Earth.

 

People consumed, trapped in time that no longer mattered. Was that indeed their fate?

Her stomach turned into knots as she considered the possibilities. Although, foremost in her mind were simple questions. _How did this happen? How many people know or am I the only one?_ No. She considered Anna, who seemed to remember the show.

 

_I am not alone._ Rebekah told herself, attempting to push the unease away. As she caught sight of the email from Anna.

 

_What do you think is happening?_

A good question. One she was unprepared to answer. But… Oh, she couldn’t be alone in this. She had to determine what would cause such a calamity. Gently and timidly, she lifted the sonic screwdriver from the clear, plastic FasTrak pouch she used as a Faraday cage and blinked, willing it to go back into the fictional world she once knew. But no, the sonic lay in her sweaty palm. Mocking her with its own existence.

 

It was that evening where she dared broaching the subject to another friend. One unconventional in terms of thinking. Maybe he would see a possibility that she could not decipher. They ordered a cocktail. Chris requested a Belgian IPA and Rebekah an Old Fashioned as they enjoyed an after work happy hour cocktail along with garlic flatbread.

 

“Chris,” She started. “Do you think it’s possible for us to remember things a certain way that didn’t happen?”

 

“Sorry?” He asked, sounding perplexed.

 

“I mean…” What did she mean? “I just wondered if I…um…say remembered the sky being a teal colored blue and then one day, it’s sea blue or…you know, say for instance you watched ‘Heroes’ but one day, you’ll wake up where it wasn’t a show but real life? All those people with abilities. Or—”

 

“No, I get it. But,” He grimaced. “I never thought you bought into conspiracy theories. Told me so yourself.” He sipped his cocktail as he glanced around for the server, considering to order another before Happy Hour ended.  And poor guy, it seemed he needed to let off steam and frustration since his mother so recently died of breast cancer. He watched her die with the same fear and trepidations she had experienced when she watched her father die. Experiencing the doubt of whether the death rattle caused their loved ones any pain.

 

Of course, Rebekah told him no. What kind of friend would she be if she speculated on levels of consciousness? However, the social worker, hospice nurse, and Doctor all said the same thing.

 

As did her priest when she repeatedly tried to confess her sin to God. He only absolved her without giving her penance. She preferred penance in order to cleanse herself from the agony she experienced.

 

“I believe what I see.” She said. “I may be from Missouri,” (an antiquated phrase. It meant simply ‘show me.)’, “but I believe what I saw. What could explain it?”

 

“The Mandela Effect. It’s remembering something a certain way. How a children’s book was spelled or even a movie that was never filmed. The Mandela Effect theorizes people who recall things from parallel realities. Ever heard the wicked witch of the Wizard of Oz say, ‘Fly my pretties, fly’?”

 

Color drained from her face. “But I remember—”

 

“A small percentage do.”

 

“What about…” She took a deep breath. “What about movies disappearing? Or TV shows?”

 

“TV shows? Are you remembering something I don’t?” He frowned.

 

“It’s just…a for instance.” She saw the doubt on his face. The silence that pervaded until he finally answered.

 

“It’s possible, I guess.”

 

“But how?”

 

“Maybe a parallel dimension crash. The crash would result in people remembering things a different way.” He paused. “It’s theoretical physics. I’m not sure about all the facets to it but they say it could happen.”

 

“A parallel dimension crash.” A chill overcame her. “But let’s play pretend, I guess. If that did take place, what would occur to the original people that lived in our reality before the crash?”

 

A look of strain on Chris’s face and a slight twist to his mouth. As if he bit into a piece of lemon without knowing or expecting the reaction. That was what she saw imperceptibly.

 

“I don’t know.”  He swallowed. “Maybe nothing. They say the soul cannot be harmed so why would a crash damage us?”

 

“Chris.” Rebekah countered. “Be pragmatic and real. What do you think would happen?”

 

“Two outcomes. We would be the same people with new or changed memories or—” He stared at the bottle of beer in his hand as if it held the power to alleviate him from this topic. His fist clenched. _He’s thinking of his mother._ Rebekah thought helplessly. _I’m making it worse._ But still, she couldn’t stop now. She had to know.

 

“Or?” She prompted.

 

“Nearly everyone would die.” He said finally. “And no one would remember that they existed.”

 

Horror suffused her. Died? She was reminded of the story she wrote of Sara before everything changed. Like Sara, her universe was obliterated. A buzzing sound permeated her ears. _Die. They can’t be dead. No. My mother, my brother, my niece…they could be gone and forgotten as if they never were._

She thought of the hideous things she said to her friend during their argument and then felt a deep sense of remorse. Guilt. Dread. Was she dead? Were the last words spoken ones said in anger and vehemence? _God forgive me._

“What’s wrong?” Chris asked. “This is hypothetical, right?”

 

“Yeah.” She said reassuringly but tumultuous waves of bile rose to her throat and suddenly she felt sick. It took a great deal for her to be struck to this degree but she made a flimsy excuse and ran off to the bathroom and started to vomit. Repeatedly. She couldn’t stop. Sweat was pouring down her face onto her neck. _Dead. Everyone I loved or knew could be dead._

Her hands were shaking. It seemed perfectly natural to cradle herself on the cool, cream tiles of the bathroom. And holding her knees together, she thought herself in a new nightmare.

 

_Penance. This is my penance. My punishment._ She never knew her sins could be so great to account her this hand she was dealt but nevertheless, she knew that could be the only cause.

 

She fumbled with the phone, pulling it out of her pocket. Without thinking, she typed a message to Anna in response to her question. _‘What do you think is happening?’_

_Everyone is dead._ She managed. _I did something and everyone is dead._ She gripped a towel off the rack. It was too hot. Maybe it was her version of Hell? Was she already there? _Anna, I’m sorry. So Sorry._ She was unconscious to the fact she repeated the words that the Tenth Doctor so often liked to use.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

She was going to die here. She knew it.

 

The hospital. All hospitals smelled. No matter how pretty they tried to make it look. It was a costume to mask what they truly were. Injury, illness, pain…and even death.

 

It was there she thought she might die. Suffering for weeks in pain but she tried to avoid a hospital. She had one very good reason for her fear. Perhaps only one but it was consequential. It was bigger than herself.

 

The world was changing and she had awakened to it but in this fractured world, she found decay. Thinking of her father, her dear father who died from a protracted service-connected cancer, perhaps this was that day where she thought death, a patient bedfellow, might come for her. A miser of all and a glutton was now reaching steadily to issue his final claim.

 

She needed surgery. When taken to the cold pre-op room in the basement, although a distinguishing white in its sterility to the promise of pureness, no serenity could be found. The nurse who announced he would be there during her operation, advised he was giving her a medication called versed.  “Like two glasses of wine.” He joked although she frowned inwardly. She somehow couldn’t find humor in the joke.

 

The medication was given to her and she expected the fatigue to fall but…nothing. No such exhaustion fell upon her. _Maybe I don’t have a reaction to this medication._ She thought uneasily. A feeling. A bad feeling boiled in the pit of her stomach, but the physical pain was too pronounced. Surely general anesthesia wouldn’t falter where this relaxing medication did.

 

An oxygen mask was pressed over her face on the operation table as her arm was tangled in IV’s with wires connecting her to a heart monitor by various electrodes on her body. Breathing was a struggle. The mask felt suffocating.

 

_I’ll be asleep in a minute. I’ll be asleep in a minute. I’ll be…_

And everything quietly faded away before she could even realize what was taking place. She succumbed easily, knowing that the next time she woke, this would be over.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

She awoke in bright light. Was she dead? And suddenly she wanted to scream in blinding pain. She felt it. Scalpels cutting into her and tearing into her flesh. Why wasn’t she asleep? She had to tell them to stop. Beg them to put her back to sleep but as she struggled to speak, to gesture or move, she felt herself a prison in her own body. Her words were stuck in her throat, paralyzed by the medication and muffled by the medical intubation tube. Her arms and legs were useless. She couldn’t tell them. Not a word or gesture. But the pain…!

 

She struggled to breath internally or to focus on counting in her mind. Just like they taught her in birthing class or films of a similar topic.

 

_One, two, three;_ Breathe. _One_ , _two, three;_ Breathe. _One two three; One, two, three._

She was powerless and ineffectual to do anything else. Would she die from shock?

 

“Her heart rate has elevated to 110.” A nurse noted and she felt a wave of relief. They would do something. They had to. The anesthesiologist said he would monitor her pain and treat accordingly while she was unconscious so in this case…

 

“Five of Vercet will do it. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

 

_No!_ She screamed desperately in her head. _No, no, no. You’re killing me! Put me to sleep. Please God, have them put me to sleep._

But in those forty-five minutes, her prayers weren’t answered. She was forced to endure having her gallbladder removed without any painkillers or anesthetic to keep her unconscious from the agony she was experiencing.

 

And when she was finally able to speak again, after the nurse asked her what her pain level was, she could only mutter, “I was never not in pain.”

 

“Sorry, hun. What was that?”

 

“The surgery.” She managed. “I was awake. I felt everything.”

 

She saw the horror on the nurse’s face. He ran to fetch the doctors and she turned to the wall. This building was now dark and foreboding. She would have run out of the hospital if she could and return home to her family. To her own bed. But…she couldn’t. She felt trapped. Trapped by pain, by the agonizing experience as a memory quivered inside her. It couldn’t be right.

 

_Red rocks, clear water, a palatial home built in the hills. A daisy there. It smells different. It’s like…_ She shook her head as the doctors emerged seeming baffled but struggling to appear confident. They had to in this case. A patient who endured surgery without anesthesia was something out of urban legend rather than proper medical procedure.

 

“We think the anesthetic may have mistakenly gone to the baby.”

 

“The baby.” Anna spoke with ringing authority. “You knew I was pregnant. You aren’t capable of sedating me without ‘accidents’?”

 

They fell silent at her rebuke. Wise men. And doubly so, not to attempt to revisit her to check on her follow up care. Associates were assigned to Anna Parker. She would never see her surgeon’s face again.

 

Except in her nightmares. Sleep was fearful. _I can’t stop him from coming._ She thought as she picked up her iPad and keyboard. But if she remembers, I have to warn her. She quickly typed the innocuous phrases she wished to send. She knew there was someone she had to warn. But there was an email that chilled her.

 

‘ _Everyone is dead. I did something and everyone is dead, Anna. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’_

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

Rebekah panicked as she opened up her eyes in the operation room at the nearest trauma facility. _I thought I dreamed about…_ Memories were fuzzy. A girl with long, dark hair. Pain. It was as much as she could muster before she clenched her sweaty palms info fists, feeling sweat trickle off her forehead. Her stomach hurt and she could feel every incision. Every cut. As though a hundred dull pencils were stabbing her intestines.

 

_I remembered what happened, didn’t I?_ She thought to herself. _I remembered…_ She searched her clouded mind but only could find a vague memory of being rolled onto the operating room table and an oxygen mask pressed over her mouth. Being told she was about to sleep now.

 

Then there was silence.

 

Now, she reawakened with the pain. She turned pleadingly to the post op nurse. “I’m sore.” She whispered. “Stomach. Throat hurts.”

 

“That’s normal.” His voice was brusque. “We can give you some wet sponges for your mouth but nothing else until you’re back in your assigned room.”

 

Her room. The room of nightmares. She was checked in three days ago and her hospitalist didn’t show up the first day in person but only granted a courtesy of a short phone call as she struggled to breathe in constant agony. Every two hours they gave her morphine and even in those two hours it wasn’t sufficient. It wasn’t until a GI Doctor came with a surgeon to examine her tests and belly, they diagnosed her with a severe gallbladder infection and acutely low potassium. A text book case. But not until her third day. They also threatened her with a ventilator at one point if she didn’t make more of an effort to breathe. Their tone was menacing.

 

Anyone could see she was trying as hard as she could but every breath was a painful one. One driven of protracted agony. She dreaded each night. The silence that fell was ominous. Her pain kept her awake and too afraid to sleep, she would stare at the stars. She remembered how a movie described that when someone died, their soul would become a star to join God in heaven. Beautiful concept really. But she so much wanted to open the window to break the heat. Her fever.

 

She lost taste for food in the hospital. The salty foods she once savored were now tediously bland to her. She choked it down. A bare minimum along with fruit because breakfast, lunch or dinner wasn’t about hunger. It was about leaving the hospital before any undue measure befell her.

 

_Never._ She thought. _I won’t come back here again._ Even though her father died through a program at this facility, she trusted them with every regard. But as nice as it looked on the forefront with gardens surrounding the area, a lovely roundabout and a hired piano player with free drinks at the lobby for patients who are members of the facility; believing she would die wasn’t worth those perks.

 

And it could have been avoided.

 

She wondered what happened. The gallbladder decided at once it wished to no longer exist in her body.  Unexpected and sharp in in its presentation where she had no warning signs of what was to come.

 

But she cared very little now. Her motivation was strictly to get home. _Soon._ She swallowed. _Soon…_ But suddenly she was struck by foresight. They kept half a pint of her blood during the operation as a fail-safe. But now, it was no longer needed.

 

“Dr. Buerger,” She said when he came into check her post-op care. “May I keep my gallbladder for…um…” She pressed her lips together. “You said I might and—"

 

“Oh, sorry. That was just a little surgical humor.”

 

“Humor?” She asked. What exactly had been funny about what she endured?

 

“We dispose of the gallbladder upon removal.” He scribbled a note down. “You really wouldn’t want it anyway. It appears to have been going downhill for years.”

 

“But… I just thought if I asked…”

 

“It’s really against hospital policy.” Dr. Buerger shook his head. “Besides, there is nothing left of it anymore even if I did have the power.” He waved his hand around dramatically in the air.  “Alright?”

 

Finally, Rebekah nodded. She was tired and the bed was uncomfortable. How could anyone sleep in it? Not only did her stomach hurt but also her back as well.  Of course, she hadn’t been able to leave her hospital bed for days simply due to the excruciating pain. And morphine, fentanyl and dilaudid took only the faintest edge off. Without painkillers, her agony bordered on nine to ten out of ten. With the narcotic, it brought her down to a seven.

After the surgeon left, Rebekah stared helplessly out the window. She had been changed from a double room with a roommate to a single. Temperature was a problem. Her roommate, an elderly woman in her late 70’s wanted the room near eighty degrees farenheight or twenty seven degrees Celcius and Rebekah, constrained by her agony, wanted the room cool. She was sweltering from the pain. Much more, she had suffered from low potassium and low oxygen. The heat added to her torment.

 

The infection that was running itself ragged through her body, was being fought by IV antibiotics but not without price. The antibiotics ripped through her stomach too. It became the torturous routine of watching the clock so she could have her next dose of morphine. A game where she felt something knifing away at her abdomen deeply inside.

 

But why she had to wait three days in a private hospital to see a doctor was anyone’s guess. The hospitalist or primary care doctor which Rebekah was staying in the hospital the first day thought she so low on the priorities, she called her bedside phone as a measure of her ‘rounds’. She didn’t think of a GI doctor until mid-Tuesday nor did she try to request a surgeon consult.

 

There was one thing the hospitalist did say, who had studied the report, which indicated that Rebekah had gallstones. “I don’t know what it is. I just don’t know.”

 

When she was assigned a different hospitalist for a reason that wasn’t given to Rebekah, her former physician in charge of her case did not wish to resume after her gallbladder was found to be the cause, for which she ignored.

 

“I’m sorry.” Dr. Shah said, who was visiting her on Friday to prepare her discharge paperwork and check the surgical sides, to ensure they were healing. “I can’t comment on what her thought process was or why she didn’t request a surgeon.”

 

“I had to spend three extra days in the hospital. If she diagnosed it correctly or at least allowed me to see a surgeon who knew what this was right away, that could have been avoided.” Rebekah pointed to her stomach.

 

“I know how frustrating this is for you but—"

 

“I won’t come back here again if I can help it.” The brunette turned, folding her arms across her chest. “I watched this hospital being built and expanded my entire life. I trusted this place for how they treated and took care of my father. But I now believe my trust was misplaced.”

 

“It was a miscommunication that—"

 

“A miscommunication is being charged the non-sale price on a sale item. This was horrifying!”

 

Silence fell over the room. Rebekah shuddered. How could she face such a place again? She glanced out the window, wanting to run and make a break for the outdoors. To get away from the environment of her fears. Yes, she said she wouldn’t go back to this hospital if it could be prevented but really how safe did she feel to go to any facility?

 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

 

“Sorry? I was in so much pain, I thought there would never be an end to it. I thought I was dying. I thought….” She put her hand up, struggling to get in control of her emotions. “Never mind. I want to go home. Do what it takes to get me out of the hospital at the soonest possible minute.”

 

It turned out they didn’t even wait for a wheelchair. She was allowed to walk out and into a waiting Uber. Before going home, she stopped at Whole Foods to pick up a digestive aide containing ox bile, which her doctor recommended. It was then she wondered how Anna was doing. That dream about her suffering a surgery without a pain anesthetic but paralyzed, unable to cry out was especially vivid. She could feel Anna’s pain too and she wondered if it was prophetic.

 

But she had a similar dream as her father was dying in hospice. Could it have just been a projection of her deeply rooted fears?

 

Perhaps simply a nightmare. Dreams under the weight of general anesthesia were not uncommon as she so often experienced.

 

_But is it common to dream of someone’s intense surgical pain?_

Her hands trembled and she closed her eyes wondering how she could possibly go to sleep tonight considering such potentially, vicious dreams. Or then, every night thereafter?

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

 

The week following, she cherished the sensation of not suffering from debilitating pain. No, relished it. She truly felt alive. So much so, she didn’t entertain her worries about the Doctor. She took her niece Dawn out to visit a toy company, candy shop and to lunch. She relished spending time with her best friend and her husband before the baby was born.

 

She even managed to buy Chris, her best friend’s husband, a flavored cigar with a silver lighter to mark the occasion. The man was not a smoker in any sense of the word. But he was a lover of archaic traditions. And if he wanted to honor the birth of his daughter before going back out on deployment, the least she could do is give him the cigar and lighter as a gift for such an event as this.

 

Truly, that was the beauty coming into the world by means of the birth of Elaine. It was no small trick or feat to endure when she was summoned to the hospital at 3:00 in the morning and was unable to leave until 9:00 at night. But Elaine was perfect. Seven pounds and ten ounces with a full head of deep brown hair and dark eyes. A beautiful baby, which could not always be said but perhaps Rebekah was biased when it came to Elaine. She was beautiful. Soft, pink cheeks and rosy. Barely crying in the least; only when she really needed to be fed.

 

_Perfect._ Rebekah thought as she took a deep breath in this hospital room. And surely this is how it should be. Birth was a celebration. The newborn baby unit was a happy and pretty area of the hospital. And it seemed to symbolize something even better to Rebekah. Expunge the unpleasantness and bring new light into this world. Her disease was unpleasant. Elaine was the joy.

 

Perhaps she hoped it would be that simple but Rebekah wasn’t a fool. She could tell she was marked by her experience. She had flashes of that time that haunted her as an ever-present follower. It appeared when she closed her eyes, she could see the room again, smell the hospital antiseptic, her own lack of uncleanliness as she had no strength to shower for so long. The hospital bracelet, which acted as a barcode reader. One swipe would show her history, her tests, everything.

 

Even just the act of flushing out an IV, made her twinge. Not to mention, the staff coming into check her vitals every two hours.

 

She learned how to sleep lightly; to be alert at the smallest signs of distress by jolting herself awake.

 

One night, two cats fought just near her window. Startled by the noise, she knocked over two water glasses in the debacle, which both broke on the floor beneath her bed. She gave a groan of disappointment. Those were newly bought. How could she be so clumsy?

 

She bit her tongue between her teeth, thinking how much the gesture emulated Rose in the TV series. Yes, she had admired Rose and her tenacity. But Bekka also considered the other impetuous. She had the knack of getting into trouble. But… A thought stirred in Bekka’s mind.

 

_Self defense._ She thought. There was a Kung Fu instructional facility, which could teach her proper conduct that wouldn’t cause harm and was only meant to get away from an attacker or harmlessly incapacitate them should such an occasion arrive.

 

_That’s it!_ Rebekah felt something click inside of her. Once she had better recovered, she would start learning that trade. With it, she wouldn’t necessarily need a gun or other weapon. No, her body and skills were the weapon. She just needed to know how to use them. _Independence._ She thought. Being in the situation she was in, stripped of her dignity. She wanted to begin the process of having her become alive by restoring some of the independence for which she knew.

 

And this might be a way for her to do it.

 

She frowned and nodded, wondering what Anna would think. _She hasn’t really known I’ve been ill. With all those fires across the country…_

‘ _Anna, I was really sick and finally had surgery to remove my gallbladder.” She paused. “I had a strange dream about you.”_ She was almost embarrassed about the notion but she had felt the other girl’s pain.

She waited a few minutes for the response before typing another email.

 

“ _Sorry, seems silly with all things considered.”_

Rebekah pressed send and licked her her lips. Who had time to talk about dreams, strange or not, when they were caught in this interminable chaos. _Will it ever end?_

_“It’s alright.”_ Anna finally responded with considerable care. _“Life is stranger than fiction. Even more for me.”_ She didn’t elaborate. What was beyond that strange commentary?

“ _I’m sorry_.” The brunette repeated, again feeling sick. Recovery was a struggle and she detested her anti-nausea medication. Then her nightmares… She closed her eyes, trying to push them away.

 

_“I’m sorry too.”_ Anna responded. “ _But Rebekah, we all need to talk?”_

_“All?”_

_“You, me and-”_

Rebekah stared incomprehensibly at the computer screen at the last words Anna sent to her in an email. Fragmented. Disjointed. No email followed to explain the mystery. Who was all? Talk to who?

 

She shook her head but pressed her lips together. She had to take a chance or otherwise deal with perpetual insanity. Maybe Anna wasn’t the only one who remembered. No. She couldn’t be. Or at least, Rebekah hoped. _Helene._ She needed to at least warn her. No, they weren’t on talking terms as yet, but did she wish to wait until it was too late to put her regrets into actions?

 

No, she did not. Anna cared much for discretion but Rebekah lost enough. Too many regrets to stay silent here. It was time to reach out to Helene or Lena as she was apt to call her. She stared at the screen for a moment before typing out another message to her friend she had desisted contact with two months ago. And waited.

 

Like the song sung perpetually by the demon in the movie ‘Fallen’, time was definitely not on her side.

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++

+++SI++DW++SI+++

Unconsciously, Anna darted drumming her fingers together on the wood desk that housed her laptop. She had been anxious before but the repetitive motion was calming. A rhythm that spoke to her. She felt better each time she did it.

 

She swallowed, thinking of George. To her, he was her ‘Rose’ who made sacrifices for them to have a roof over their heads and money for school. It wasn’t simple for George, she knew, working at a job he detested to make ends meet but he did that for his family. That was his endurance. His bequest to Anna, Cara, Emily and Brad. But what would he really say concerning how the story she based ‘Reality’ upon was now coming to life? She pressed her hands to her forehead, shaking her head slowly, digging her fingernails into her palms.

 

When she needed surgery due to her arthritis, he had been there. His work and benefits made it so she didn’t have to suffer more pain she might otherwise endure. Still, moving was a challenge but it hadn’t beaten her yet. She swore to herself it never would. 

  

She was scooting back from the keyboard before pulling herself closer. No. She couldn’t turn away from this. Not from what she knew.  She hit the compose button again, having abruptly tried to play the safe approach and began to type. What was the least risk? That was the question. It was about survival and surety.

 

Anna startled, hearing the doorbell ring and she grimaced. The mail was already three hours late and she was expecting parcels to be delivered. Neighbors had reported theft of packages from their door on NextDoor.com. But if she remained vigilant, she could prevent such a similar circumstance happening to her. She headed to the door, wrapping a nearby shawl around her. Already there was a chill in the air that caused the dense smell of smoke from the fires that ravaged several states on the West Coast to hang more heavily in the air.

 

“Anna Parker?”

 

She froze, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the back of her neck. She swept her long dark hair across her shoulder at this particular visitor. No words were able to come forth. She was struck mute.

 

“Or is it Patience?”

 

She attempted to blink away the familiar voice, feeling shock rock through her at the face before her. Her hand flew to her mouth.

 

_It can’t be…_

But here she was, paralyzed in her movements facing _him_ of all people. What was she going to do?

 

+++SI++DW++SI+++ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Dr. Hannibal Lecter is here as a funny, not as a cannibal. No worries about any third crossover.
> 
> This is a co-written self-inserted work between emptyvoices and Almadynis Rayne and we hope what you enjoyed reading so far that you leave feedback, good or bad. I know it’s been a long time since I have written but prior stories for better or worse had to be put on pause. While this won’t be like ‘Lost in Time’ with Sara Thomas or about Almadynis’s Nova Morganson, this may reference such characters abstractly.
> 
> Reader beware, politics will be mentioned though we have done our best to keep them neutral while not deterring from the truth.
> 
> And as always, my thanks to LovelyAmberLight for lending us her characterization as part of this story. She will only feature a small bit role in terms of writing in perhaps one or two areas. But she was kind enough to assist in the accuracy of her dialogue in future chapters

**Author's Note:**

> co-written with emptyvoices


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